


Angel Of Mercy

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-07-23
Updated: 1999-07-23
Packaged: 2018-11-11 04:45:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11141280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: The first in a trilogy.  Live through the eyes of a young nun caring for Ray after the search for the Hand of Franklin goes terribly wrong.





	Angel Of Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Angel Of Mercy

## Angel Of Mercy

by Strwriter

Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dunes/7676/duecredit.html

Author's disclaimer: Alliance owns Fraser, Kowalski, Dief, Delmar, Victoria, Due South...heck, they own everything here except for the story itself. And, of course, the Sister, because that's YOU.

Author's notes: This story is written in the second person present tense. What that means is that the reader is actually a character in the story. It's an unusualy viewpoint, and may seem awkward until you get used to it, but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway.

* * *

The noise is unmistakable. Buzzing like an overgrown Yukon mosquito, the small aircraft is growing steadily closer. Any moment now, it will land outside your door, and you must be ready for it. Quickly, you grab another roll of gauze and shove it into your pocket, then take up a position at the window to watch and wait.   
You can feel your hands shaking, and you clasp them tightly together. It's just been so long since this small hospital has seen a serious patient. In the six months you've been stationed to this remote Yukon position, you've only seen a handful of patients. Trappers mostly, suffering from lacerations caused by the wickedly sharp traps and knives that make up that livelihood. Never anything this serious. What did the radio say? Thrown from a moving car? 

Sister Mary Joan steps up behind you and puts a comforting hand on your shoulder. "Frightened, Sister?" Blushing in shame, you nod. 

"What if he needs surgery? Or a transfusion? There's only the one Doctor, and this isn't even a real hospital! Three years ago, it was a Park Ranger's station!" You gesture around the tiny three-room cabin. It's always seemed good enough, with it's two neatly made beds, it's cheery fireplace, and it's rows of gleaming medical supplies. Now, however, it looks only slightly better than a handheld first aid kit. 

The older nun seems to recognize your fears. "God will take care of him, Sister. Just let him guide your hands." You nod, but before you can think further about the life-and-death realities of this situation, the plane has landed, it's wheels crunching into and marring the pristine white surface of the snow. 

Surprisingly, you find that the butterflies dancing in your stomach soon dissipate. Training takes over, and you feel an eerie calm as you approach the side of the plane. The medics of the rural air medical transport are lifting down the gurney now, and you crane your neck to see the patient. It's morbid, you know, and you resolve to confess that to the priest tonight, but you want to know what a human being looks like after being thrown from a speeding car. 

As the wheels of the gurney settle onto the frozen ground, you get your first good look at the patient...now a 'he' , you observe. His face has been wrapped mummy-like in red-tinged bandages, one arm and both legs bound and splinted. You know there are probably internal injuries as well. A thick blanket protects him from the biting chill of the Yukon winter, but you can still make out the generalities of his form. Not too tall, but not exactly short, either. A bit on the skinny side, the straps holding him to the gurney outlining narrow hips and lanky arms and shoulders. Bits of blonde hair peek out here and there between the bandages on his head, but what strikes you about the man is his eyes. 

They are like the eyes of a madman, afire with emotions too numerous to count. By their red rims, you can tell he's been crying, and you get the feeling that it wasn't all from physical pain. Gently, you stroke his hand as you walk beside the gurney. You know you shouldn't get attached to patients...how many times were you told that in nursing school? But something about this man reaches out to you, and you justify that Jesus never shrank back from getting close to those who suffered. 

"It's going to be all right," you whisper gently. His eyes flicker in your direction, and you smile, praying silently that your words are not a lie. "What's your name?"   
He winces as he tries to speak, and fresh blood blooms scarlet on the bandages as the movement re-opens a torn lip. "Ruhh..." The word is a harsh, rasping sound, almost a grunt. He squeezes his eyes shut in frustration, then tries again. "Ruhh....Raahh...Ray." You have to step aside a moment as the gurney is brought through the narrow doorway into the cabin, then move to his side again, taking his hand. "Hello, Ray," you say softly, "I'm Sister Mary Angelique. You're at a hospice...we're going to try to help you, all right?" "Uh huh," Ray manages. There is a moment when he seems to turn inward, his eyes growing glassy. That distant expression makes your heart stop for a moment, but it is worse when they focus again. Such pain and worry. "Fr..." His voice chokes off in pain, but he pushes past it and begins again, his tone desperate. "Fra...Fraser...got...him...too?" Curious, you turn to the medic. "Who's Fraser?" 

He shrugs, knocking snow off the shoulders of his parka onto the floor. It melts almost instantly. "Beats me, Sister. This poor bastard was the only one that hunter brought in. Said he found him lying in the snow by the side of the old jeep trail. From the skid marks, it looked like he'd been tossed from a car. The injuries backed that up...bruises, abrasions, fractured bones. I'm pretty sure there's nothing life threatening, though."   
*Thank you, Lord.* You smile in gratitude, then as you look back to Ray, your smile fades. "I'm sorry, you're the only one they brought in. Is Fraser a friend of yours? Were you traveling together?" 

The reaction was remarkable. Ray's eyes abruptly fill with tears, and he makes a small, choking sound, clearly trying to suppress a sob. There is a tiny motion of the bandaged head that is meant to be a nod, then the bleeding lips part again. "Hand. We...go... hand..." Ray abruptly reaches up with his free arm, and you see that even though it's not splinted, it's crusted from abrasions and dark with bruises. He grabs your wrist, and your eyes widen in shock at the strength of his grip. "Fraser...pushed me out..."   
"What!" You gasp, your other hand flying to your mouth. Feeling anger begin to well up, you look to the medic again. "Get it out on the radio. We've got a name for the man who did this to--" 

"No!" Ray's voice interrupts. "Did...it...to save....to save me." His eyes begin to flutter closed, but he fights the creeping blackness, an almost animal desperation blazing in those penetrating eyes. "Now...gone." Those last words rip into you, the tone of such terrible loss that you feel your own eyes tear even though you know neither man. You want to make it better, to heal the heart which is obviously wounded so much more gravely than the body, but you don't know what to say. 

Soon, it is moot. The agony-filled eyes close, and despite yourself, you expel a sigh of relief. Now you can work on healing his body, and then, maybe, you can find out more about his other wounds. 

*** 

"I don't know what to do, Father. I've tried everything I can to get through to him, but it's not working." You look plaintively at the screen that separates you from the priest in the tiny, makeshift confessional. It's been ten days now since Ray arrived, and all you've managed to find out is that his last name is Kowalski and that he is American. The latter wasn't even by his own admission, but his accent is as clear as if he were wearing a sign marked 'Chicago Born And Raised.' 

The priest's voice is warm and gentle. "Are you praying for him, my child?"   
"Many times a day." You feel yourself blush as you admit, "I think the Virgin Mary might be growing a bit tired of me bothering her." 

He chuckles. "There is no such thing as too much prayer, my child. Ray has been through something terrible. Something so terrible that he not only refuses to talk about the incident, but even about himself." 

"I know, Father...I want to help him." 

"You are. His body is healing well." 

"But what about the rest of him?" you protest. 

"The soul heals in it's own time. Pray for him, help his body heal, be there for him when he needs you. That's all you can hope to do." 

"Yes, Father." 

"Is that all, my child?" 

Your head bows slightly in shame. "No, Father. I have sinned." 

"In what way?" 

"This morning, Ray asked me if Fraser had been found. I told him that he hadn't...but I didn't tell him that the search ends today. I am guilty of the sin of lying. I am also guilty of the sin of pride...I was prideful when we unbandaged his face yesterday and I saw the improvement." You sit quietly as the priest absolves you of your sins and bestows forgiveness. Leaving the confessional, you still feel heavy, burdened. It is the guilt of another, perhaps, but it is on your shoulders. 

As you step into the ward, you pause to look at your patient. Ray looks remarkably childlike as he lays there sleeping, the blankets rumpled around him. You smile slightly, shaking your head. No matter how many times you fix those blankets, he messes them up again in moments, even though you can never figure out exactly how he manages it. Fine blonde hair has fallen in loose strands over his forehead, his angular features soft in sleep. The bruises have faded for the most part, but there is still darkness around his eyes and across one cheekbone. New pink skin gleams over his cheeks and one bare arm where the more shallow abrasions have healed, but the deep ones remain scabbed and crusted, looking like gnarled islands on his pale skin. His right arm and both legs are still encased in plaster to shelter the fractured bones, but eventually, his body will heal fully. You're not so sure about his heart. 

Over the last ten days, you've tried everything you could think of to draw him out. He now knows everything about you...where you're from, your childhood, the events that compelled you to leave your former life to become a nun in this remote area. But you know very little about him. Even to learn that his last name was Kowalski was the result of three days of gentle interrogation. He's told you that his friend's name is Fraser, and given a general description, but that's all. He won't tell you what they were doing or how they knew each other. 

You stopped pressing for information three days ago. It was just too painful to watch him evade the questions with nothing answers or that black, self-depriciating humor. Ray seems to have no sense of self esteem, no happiness behind the blue eyes, and you wonder what could have possibly stripped a man's soul like that. Do you really want to know? Opening a nearby cabinet, you withdraw the antibiotic ointment and some cotton swabs. Ray's wounds have to be cleaned several times a day to ward off infection from the filthy asphalt the flesh was abraded against. You know the procedure is painful, but he bears up remarkably well, responding to the pain with nothing more than clenched teeth and more of that same black humor. 

A few steps away from his bed, you hear the radio squelch. Quickly, you set down the supplies and hurry to the radio. The call sign is 'Eagle', so you know it's the search team. Could they have found something? Have your prayers been answered? "Angel here," you say excitedly, "come in, Eagle." 

Static bursts across the channel, obscuring part of his reply, but you could swear you heard the word 'found'. Your heart leaps into your throat. "Did you find him?"   
"Sorry, Angel." Your heart sinks, but you try to look at this objectively. This was a long shot anyway. Four days ago, they found the car. It was a burnt out hulk at the bottom of a ravine, crushed and mutilated almost as badly as the two bodies inside. Those poor people had been reduced nearly to ashes, nothing left to identify them to family or friends. You had known then that it was probably futile to keep hoping, but you haven't quite been able to stop yourself. 

"We've combed the whole area," he assures you, "Only tracks belong to a local trapper...we know his boots. No one walked away. Other than more bits and pieces of that car, the only thing we found today was a hat lodged in a cleft in a rock. We think it belonged to one of those poor guys in the car." 

Swallowing past the thickness in your throat, you thumb down the mike key to answer. "Thank you, Eagle. God bless." This is it. The last report of the last day of the search. It's over. You're about to sign out, but a sudden idea catches you. "Angel to Eagle..." "Go ahead." 

"Can you describe the hat for me? Maybe Ray can identify it." 

There is a pause, then the voice is hesitant as it replies. "It's pretty ugly, Sister. Are you sure?" 

"Very." 

"Ok." You hear shuffling as the hat is retrieved. "From the looks of things, I think it was a Mountie's hat in a past life. I hear Stetsons are pretty tough...that's about the only reason it would still be around. It's totally charred black on the outside, and there's a big hole torn in - no, scratch that, *blown* in the crown. Something all over the inside. Looks like blood. Won't know for sure until the forensics people get it. That's all."   
"Thank you," you say quietly, then sign out. You stand there for a long moment, staring at the radio. How are you going to break this to Ray? 

The question is soon answered, as Ray's distinctive, slightly nasal Chicago diction invades on your thoughts. "It's his." You gasp in surprise, then turn to look at the man.   
He is looking at you with those penetrating eyes. You wonder how long ago he woke up, how much he heard. "His?" 

"Fraser's. The hat." He looks down, his free hand twisting in the blankets. "His hat."   
"Fraser was a Mountie?" 

"Yeah. Real Dudley Do-Right, died in the wool Mountie." His voice is strangely flat, as if the words are being spoken by a machine. "A freak." 

"A freak?" 

"A freak." The narrow shoulders shudder, and there is a moment when he is completely still. Then you he swipes his hand over his eyes. You see him bite his lip, and when he continues, his voice is almost trembling. "Total freak...but we were partners anyway. Don't know why I put up with...." He pauses again, but it's too much for him to continue. Ray closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, he's locked it all down. The emotions are still there, but it's like looking at something through an impenetrable sheet of ice. Partners. You take a deep breath. What was a Mountie doing with an American from Chicago as partners up here in the Yukon? Was it a business venture? Vacation? An international crime? "Ray, I know you're American...." 

The side of his mouth quirks up in a small, almost mocking half-smile. "What about it?"   
"Well," you begin slowly, "if he was a Mountie, I really do need to contact the RCMP about his..." No, you can't say death. "...disappearance. His family would want to--"   
"He hasn't got any." The words are sharp, almost explosive. 

"I see." 

No one says anything for what seems like an eternity. No one knows what to say. Then finally, you clear your throat. Part of you wants to hold him, to comfort him, or to at least take his hand, but you know he wouldn't want that. "Ray, you don't have to do this if you aren't ready, but I think it would be very helpful for the RCMP to know what happened to...was it Constable Fraser?" 

"Sorta." He's sullen, his one good arm wrapped tightly against his thin chest like a pouting child. 

"In what way?" 

"They'd promoted him. To Sergeant. Just found out about it a couple weeks ago. But we hadn't gotten back to make it official yet." 

"Sergeant Fraser then. Can you tell me what happened back there?" 

"I could." That same tone, so petulent you're tempted to slap him, but with that wounded undercurrent that makes it impossible. 

"Will you?" 

"No." 

"Just no?" You carefully measure your tone, trying not to push too hard while still being firm. "Ray, from what I gather, someone out there did this to you and your friend. You've been badly hurt. Sergeant Fraser is missing and may even have been killed...and you're the only person who can do anything about it." 

He laughs bitterly. "Do something about it. What am I supposed to do about it? I'm lying here in a zillion pieces, and the guys who did it to me are barbecue."   
"But they may have been working for someone." you insist. Looking directly into his blue eyes, you take his one free hand in both of yours, squeezing tightly. "Please, Ray, tell me what happened. If not for me, then do it for God." 

"What's he got to do with this?" 

A quote from Psalms comes to mind, and you recite softly, "'A righteous God who searches minds and hearts shall bring and end to the violence of the wicked and make the righteous secure.'" 

He frowns quizzically. "So you're sayin' God's got a witness protection program?"   
You've never heard it interpreted quite that way, and you giggle. "Sort of. What that passage is saying is that God wants justice done, and if you are willing to step forward, he will help you achieve that justice. The wicked will be punished, and the righteous man will be safe." 

"Then how come guys get whacked for ratting on crooks?" 

"The price of free will, Ray. If an evil man wants to hurt a good man, more often than not God won't reach down a fiery hand to stop him. But it all balances out in the end." You pause as a new thought comes to mind. "Are you afraid someone will go after you if you talk?" 

"No." The answer comes too quickly, and he refuses to meet your eyes as he speaks. Unwillingly, he has just admitted his precise fear. You decide to take a new tack, try and approach it from behind. 

"All right. If you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to." 

"Sorry," He grins, a lopsided expression that only lifts one side of his mouth. "That reverse psychological thingy isn't gonna work on me either." 

"Reverse psychology?" Your expression is as pure and innocent as a newborn baby, and you know that you'll have a lot of confessing to do tonight. "I would never." From the pocket of your apron, you withdraw a vial of disinfectant. "I'm just not going to argue in circles with you when it's time to change your bandages." 

Ray groans and flops back on the pillow, and you have to fight the urge to giggle again. So melodramatic. One would think you'd suggested amputation. Your movements are quick and efficient as you snip off the dressing that binds a deep gash on his scalp. Gently, you nudge aside the blonde hair to examine the wound. 

It's healing nicely, but gravel and dirt had been forced into this particular injury quite deeply. You've had to open and clean it several times, insuring that it heals from the inside out to avoid trapping any particles inside that might cause infection. Wetting a cotton ball with alcohol, you begin swabbing at the thick scab, noting with a shake of your head that dark specks of dirt continue to appear along with the russet stain of the dissolving blood on the cotton. Contaminants are still being forced up. 

As the scab dissolves, the alcohol begins to encounter torn and tender flesh, and you hear Ray take a sharp, hissing breath in pain. "You know, Mr. Kowalski," you say casually, "you're a textbook example of not judging a book by it's cover." 

His teeth are clenched as you quickly swab out the inside of the gash, but he manages to keep his voice surprisingly cool. "How so?" 

"We get these big, strong trappers in here all the time. Men a head taller than you and three times as broad." 

A tight smile appears on his face. "Grizzly Adams, eh?" 

You stop and look down at him, your mouth open in mock astonishment. "Why Mr. Kowalski, I do believe you're starting to talk like a Canadian." 

This gets a genuine chuckle from him. "Side effect of hanging around up here for the last three months. You know what the really bad part is?" 

"What?" 

"I've got a craving for pemmican." 

Nodding gravely, you make one last swipe of the wound, ignoring the wince it prompts. "If you want some, I'm sure I can get it for you." Your eyes twinkle, both of you well aware that a fondness for the tough, desiccated meat patties is one of the final warning signs of Yukon acclimation. 

"From one of those trappers?" 

"Of course. The next time one of them comes in, I'll get you all you want." Soothing ointment is squeezed on next, and you smile as you hear him actually sigh in relief. "Believe it or not, they're the biggest babies you ever met. One of them gets a paper cut, and he comes running in here like it was the end of the world. By the time they actually step in a bear trap or cut off a finger, they usually just faint dead away at the sight of their own blood. You, on the other hand - a little Yankee city boy - come in here, as you put it, 'in a zillion pieces,' and you haven't screamed or fainted once." You pause as you cut the gauze to it's proper length. "Although I don't think I've ever met anyone quite as fast as you." 

An actual blush appears on his cheeks at this. He's had a habit of ducking and wincing when you or Sister Mary Joan are treating him, and it's become something of a running joke. The blush soon fades, though, replaced by the pride you knew that your assurance would bring to his male ego. Men always like to be told how brave they are, and in this case, you're happy that he deserves the praise. "So I'm real stoic, huh?" "Absolutely." You begin to wind the bandage around his head, but soon stop. Something has changed about his demeanor, a quietness replacing the playful banter.   
"Fraser'd be surprised to hear it." 

Treading carefully, you decide to press him a bit on this. Maybe he will volunteer some information that will help you in determining what happened. "Why is that, Ray?"   
"Two months ago, we were in this really bad blizzard snowstorm thing. Fraser was trying to get us to a sheltered place on the mountain, but the sled fishfinned--"   
"Fishtailed?" 

"Yeah. It swung around as he turned the dogs, and whoosh! We're twenty feet down a crevasse. Fraser cut the ties with his knife real quick so the dogs didn't go down, but we had to pull the sled up ourselves. I went nuts over a couple of bumps and bruises, really made a stink about it. Wasn't until two days later that I found out he'd broken his arm when we went down. Set it himself and kept right on going. Didn't say a word."   
"Sounds like a very brave, strong man." In your mind's eye you try to create an image of this iron-willed Sergeant. "Was he a 'Grizzly Adams' too?" 

Ray laughs at this. "Hell no! He was tough as nails, sure, but he didn't look it. More like a freakin' choir boy. Little bit taller than me, but not real big - 'bout six feet I guess - with the kind of looks that drive women nuts. I guess it's a good thing for me that he's not here, or I'd be playing second fiddle again." 

You smile. "You're not bad looking yourself, Ray. Aside from the blood, of course."   
His jaw drops. "I thought you were a nun." 

"I am." You reply, "But being chaste doesn't mean that I'm blind." 

"Just that I can't get nowhere." 

"Right." 

You finish tying off the bandage on his head and move around to the other side of the bed to check on the cast over his right arm. "Your friend, Fraser, did he have a first name?" The question is asked casually. His guard is down now, just like you'd hoped, and you don't want a step too far to bring the walls back up again. "Yeah. Benton." 

So formal! That sort of name doesn't seem to fit the man that Ray has described at all...it seems more suited to an accountant, or a poet perhaps. "Are you serious?"   
"Completely." 

"Sounds like an interesting guy." 

"He..." The light air suddenly vanishes, and his shoulders slump as a darkness seems to descend over his eyes. "He was." 

Now or never. Stopping your work, you lock your eyes with his. "Ray, please...tell me what happened. Benton may not have any family, but from what you tell me, he surely had friends. They deserve to know the truth." 

"I can't." 

"Yes, you can." You're almost yelling at him now. "Or did he mean so little to you that you are willing to forget him?!" 

It was meant to provoke some kind of reaction, but you don't expect this. Ray seems to explode, suddenly sitting bolt upright, shaking in anger. "It's FOR him, dammit!! I don't want him remembered for this!! I want Frannie and Welsh and the Duck Boys and the other Ray - even the Ice Queen - to remember him as Superman!!" 

None of those names mean anything to you, but you decide to seek clarification later. "Why would that change, Ray? Was he doing something illegal?" 

"No!!" 

"Then what was it?!!" You match him in temper, your noses less than an inch apart now. "In the name of God, Ray, tell me what happened!!" 

His blue eyes stare into your soul, the hurt and anger almost too much to bear. For a moment, you expect him to strike you, then he turns away suddenly, settling back to the bed like a deflating balloon. When he speaks, his voice is thick, the words clearly coming only with difficulty. "Her name was Victoria." 

To Be Continued...... 

Dropping this quickly before I run to dinner with the family...Due Credit votes have dropped way off, and I had time to pound this out. 

"Victoria?" He nods, and you pull up a chair. Something tells you this is going to be a long one. "Tell me about Victoria, Ray...was she a friend of yours?"   
"Hell no." His face twists in disgust at the mere thought, and you decide that this is not the best time to reprimand him for his language. "She was a bitch. A real bitch."   
"What did she do?" 

"What didn't she? Murder, extortion, heartbreak, betrayal, perjury, resisting arrest, assault, illegal flight, stealing...yeah, she was a real sweetheart. If I'd ever met her, I'da killed her. Right there...BAM, dead." One hand mimes firing a gun, and he seems almost gleeful of the idea of murdering this woman. The attitude horrifies you, but if this Victoria is all he says she is, perhaps he has a good reason. 

"She did all this to you, Ray? Was she your sister...wife..." You hesitate, then force your tone to be non-chalent. It doesn't matter what you think of this, it happens a lot these days. "Your lover?" 

The blue eyes meet yours, and you know the answer before he answers. "Fraser's. He met her about twelve years ago, up here in Deep Freeze. She'd robbed a bank, and he tailed her into the middle of a blizzard. He was just a kid really, ink wasn't even dry on his RCMP commission, but he's like a pit bull, y'know. Spit on the sidewalk and he tracks you to your grave. Kept at her after everyone with half a brain had given up. Lost his pack, lost his climbing supplies, some say lost his mind, but didn't lose her." 

"Persistent man." 

"You don't know the half of it." Ray shifts in the bed, scratching at the itchy areas at his shoulder the plaster casts inevitably cause. It's clearly stalling for time, but you wait patiently, the look in your eyes making it plain to him that you aren't going away. Finally, he realizes he can no longer avoid telling his story. With a deep sigh, he closes his eyes. "He tracked her to a place called Fortune's Pass or something, but the snow had closed in, and they had to huddle together to survive. They were trapped there for days...nearly died. He talked to her until he lost his voice, then put her fingers in his mouth to keep 'em from freezing. Then he says he kinda drifted off. Dying. But she started reciting this poem, and he hung on to that. Don't know how, but they lived through it and found his pack." 

He shakes his head, that one-sided smile touching his lips again, though his eyes stay closed. "Fraser said they ate everything in one meal. That says something about how far gone he was...this guy would normally ration the hell out of every bite. But hey, I figure he was twenty one and freakin' out about the snowstorm thing, and who am I to talk?" 

The smile fades. "She wanted him to let her go. She'd just been the wheelman, y'know, the driver. No biggie, and everyone thought she was dead anyway. The RCMP woulda been turning cartwheels just to see Fraser come back in one piece." 

There is an almost surreal quality to this story - hearing about the life and love of a dead man - and you lean closer, mesmerized. The next part seems obvious, but you're hoping it's not true. "He loved her, but he brought her in anyway. Did she go to prison?" "Yeah. Ten years. By the time she got out, she was really twisted. Came up with this whole plot for getting back at him. Shot his dog, burned down his Dad's cabin, planted stolen cash on him, shot a guy with his RCMP gun, framed him and his other partner for a bunch of crap...and if that wasn't enough, she screwed him. Not just his body, either. Totally trashed his head and broke his heart." He opens his eyes, and the hate burning in them takes your breath away. "Damn thing is, he was going to marry her. He's not your average Joe...not the kind for one-night stands and all, though God knows he could get 'em." "Hmmm." You make a non-committal noise at this. 

He leans forward a bit, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "You'd never believe this if you saw the guy, but we were talkin' about a thirty-two year old virgin. He'd been waitin' for her. Loved her, y'know, and wasn't about to do it with somebody he didn't love just for the sake of doin' it. Not that he'd had a lot of choices before Chicago, though...he'd been living out in the armpit of nowhere. When Victoria was sprung, he thought she'd straightened her act up." This prompts a derisive snort. "Like hell she had. After she'd trashed his life, she tried to get him to go with her. He almost did, too...loved her that much. I know what that's like. When you're so nuts about a woman that you totally lose your head. I guess I should be glad no one shot me." 

Your eyes widen. "Shot you?" 

"That's the only thing that stopped him. His partner tried to whack the bitch, and it hit Fraser by accident. He still carries the slug in his back." 

There is so much venom in this tale that although you know it's biased, you find yourself hating this woman already. You shake your head in amazement. All these feelings and you don't even know the victim or the villain. "I'm so sorry, Ray."   
He shrugs, feigning indifference. "Hey, it wasn't me. And Fraser put it behind him. Took him a while, but he let her go." A surprisingly wicked smile suddenly lights his eyes. "I think he had the hots for the Ice Queen." 

You frown. "Ice Queen?" 

"Sorry. Nickname. That was his boss, Inspector Thatcher. Cold as ice, but what a babe! The only time I ever caught him checking out a woman was her. Watching her legs go by like any red-blooded American." Something about the thought of the man Ray has described ogling a woman strikes you as funny, and you can't entirely stifle a laugh. "Oh dear!" Your words seem to hit Ray like a physical blow, and he stares at you for a long moment, his mouth slightly open. Curious at the startling reaction to such an innocuous statement, you ask "What's wrong?" 

"Fraser. That was his thing, his deal. 'Oh Dear' when the rest of us guys were cursing our heads off. I don't think I heard a half dozen dirty words come out that guy's mouth in the two and a half years I knew him, and those weren't even stuff my Mom'd clean my mouth out with soap for." His head hangs. "I didn't think anybody else said that. But I guess if anyone did, it'd be a nun." 

You nod, then change the subject. "But back to Victoria, Ray. Was she the one that did this to you and Fraser?" 

"Kind of." 

"Kind of? How?" 

"We'd stopped for supplies up in Tuktuyaktuk, Fraser's old stomping grounds. Between chewing the fat - and I do mean literally, Sister - with the locals and loading up, we got a phone call. Seems Miss Vicky wasn't through with Fraser. She'd gone down to Chicago, talked to another Mountie by the name of Turnbull. He didn't know who she was, and thankfully didn't know WHERE Fraser and I were, or I'm sure we woulda found a bomb in our blubber or something. But he did tell her about another lady who could get in touch with us." 

"Thatcher?" 

"Bingo. The call was from Ray Vecchio, the old partner who'd handled this lady before...the one who wound up shooting Fraser over her. He'd put a make on Victoria from Turnbull's description. He was ready to haul his butt up here, but Fraser said he'd come down. Faster that way and all." 

You're completely engrossed with this tale now, but something occurs to you. "Why didn't you just contact this Thatcher woman and warn her?" 

That sarcastic snort again, and he shrugs. "She's on some kind of top-secret Canadian thing. Foreign governments out to steal your maple syrup recipe or something, I guess. No one would tell us where she was. But we knew Victoria could find her - even just from the description an idiot like Turnbull had passed - and we knew that Fraser could find her faster." 

"And that was when it happened?" 

He nods. "Yup. That's when it happened." 

Ray stops and lets himself sink back into the pillow, his eyes closing. For a moment, you fear that the story is going to stop here, that this is the beginning of another long and painful period of silence. Soon, though, you see that is not why he stopped. His eyes are closed too tightly for rest, but there are no tears. Gently, you touch the fresh bandage. "Does it hurt?" 

"You could say that." He winces, trying to squirm without moving anything. Not an easy feat. "I think I'm out of the ouch juice." He nods towards his IV bag, which hangs limp and virtually empty. Laughing softly, you check your watch. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Kowalski, you've kept me entranced with this little story of yours when I should have been refilling your IV. You ran out fifteen minutes ago." A tight grin appears. "Maybe I should keep my mouth shut then." 

"Maybe I should refill the IV and you should keep talking." You retort quickly, "Or I just might have to resort to unholy means of persuading you." Teasingly, you wave the syringe of pain medication, pretending to contemplate seriously not giving it to him. 

"I can't believe it," Ray sighs, "I'm being blackmailed by a nun." 

"You bet you are." Even as you banter with your patient, your thumb smoothly depresses the plunger of medication into the fresh bag of saline you've affixed to his IV line. Withdrawing the needle with a flourish, you sit back down besides him. "There you are. All 'doped up' again, as you put it. Keep talking." 

A truly roguish look dances in his blue eyes. "Make me." 

What the heck, you decide. You'll play his game for a little bit. With a smile of your own, you reach for the King James and begin to read. "In the beginning..." 

He frowns. "Whatcha doing?" 

"Reading," you say innocently. 

"How far?" 

"All of it. Right through to Revelation. Unless...." 

His bandaged head cocks to one side. "Unless?" 

With a schoolgirl grin, you tap the bible. "Unless you spill it. Now." 

"Hey!" Ray protests, "That's not..." 

Ignoring him, you begin. "God created the Earth. And the Earth was without form, and void; and there was darkness upon--" 

"Ok, ok!" The American throws up his one good hand in abject surrender. "I'll crack." 

Satisfied, you set the bible down and lean forward, listening eagerly. At first, it seems like Ray is going to take his own sweet time about beginning, but after only a few moments, he begins. The Chicago-accented voice is wistful now, clearly longing for his lost friend. "Fraser figured out the quickest way to get to the airport at Inuvik, where we could hop one to the Windy City and pick up Victoria's trail. We headed due south for a couple hours, then I called it quits. He'd told me we were gonna be going off the beaten path to get there faster, but he didn't tell me there'd be no path at all. He wanted to take us up this pass thing, over an ice field, and down into Inuvik. I took one look at that place and told him he was out of his little Mountie mind. That's when he told me about what happened with him and Victoria." 

"And you changed your mind." 

"Lost my mind was more like it. Agreed to go with him." He smiles ruefully, "Actually, he did pretty good. I closed my eyes, and half the time I couldn't tell I was going over terrain so scarey I almost wet myself a couple times. We might have made it, but we ran into trouble." 

You see Sister Mary Joan enter the room behind Ray, and you subtly shake your head. Now is not the time for her to be coming in. Thankfully, she sees that you've gotten him talking, and ducks out without any further instruction. "What kind of trouble." 

"Seals." 

Curious, you frown. "Seals?" 

"Seal hunters, actually. Whacking baby seals right, left, and center. Of course, God forbid Fraser ignore little details like the fact that they were packing enough heat to arm a small country, and we had exactly one hunting rifle and a dozen rounds between the two of us. Takes us right in there, waving his RCMP badge and trying to put the whole lot of them under arrest." 

You shake your head incredulously. "Something tells me they weren't very cooperative." 

"More than that, they knew Fraser. Seems when he was a boy scout, he tried to infiltrate another seal whacking group. Got the snot beat out of him. The leader of this group had been a member of the other one, and it wasn't too hard to peg Fraser as a repeat offender, twenty years later or not. There just aren't that many blue-eyed Caucasian guys up in Inuitsville to start with, and even less of them with a superman complex like Fraser's. You can probably guess how thrilled they were to see him again." 

"They tried to kill you?" The pieces of the puzzle are slowly knitting together, and you are beginning to see the final picture. 

"Shoved us into a jeep and pointed us up this narrow, twisting little pass. It was this far from our tires to the edge, and then....whoosh. Nada for about fifty meters. They were gonna drive us to the top, then..." He salutes mockingly, "Sayonara. We'd have been written off as another accident...it was on our route anyway, and they'd just have guessed that Fraser had goofed." 

Solemnly, you nod. "That was the ravine where they found your jeep. How did you escape?" 

His voice trembles slightly at first, then steadies. "On the way up to the pass, Fraser smelled something funky. He tried to warn them that their brakes were failing, but they didn't believe him. All they did was laugh and say they'd expected more from a Mountie, and if he was gonna beg for his life, why bother to lie? He wasn't lying, though...and finally, he looked at me...and the look in his eyes just--" Ray stops a moment, then his voice comes back at a whisper. "I'd never seen him that desperate before. I knew...I knew right then that he was gonna save my life. And that he wasn't expecting to make it." 

After a short silence, he looks up, fire blazing in his eyes as he looks right at you, every word suddenly rock-steady. "We were almost on the pass when he lunged. Slashed my seatbelt with a knife he'd hidden on the underside of his boot, then opened the door and shoved me out. I hit damned hard...actually HEARD my legs crack. It hurt so bad...God, I thought I'd been set on fire. I looked up, and Fraser was about to jump after me. Then..." 

His voice chokes off, but you prod him to continue. "Then?" 

"They shot him. His shoulder just exploded in blood, and he went face down on the seat, his arm kinda hangin out the side as they kept on up the trail. I watched them go...then they rounded the corner, and I guess Fraser was right about the brakes. They must have failed. There was a squeal, and then...just an explosion. I saw the smoke. Lotsa smoke. Then I passed out. When I came to, it was still there. The car was still burning. I lay there in the snow and watched it...God, it felt like forever. I kept waiting for Fraser to come back, just do his Superman thing and walk out. But he didn't. No one came for hours...I was so cold I stopped hurting. I don't know how long it was before I was found." 

"And were brought here." 

"Yeah. I was the lucky one." 

*** 

It wasn't long after his confession that Ray had retreated into himself again, that same flippant mask coming up to hide the pain. This time, you decided to let him, figuring that he had more than earned a little refuge after laying bare the truth. You slip into the role of Just Nurse without complain, the therapist and friend taking a backseat until she is needed again. Clearly, Ray is grateful for this, but he is also just as clearly not about to start talking again any time soon. 

You contact the RCMP with the details you've learned, of course, but it doesn't make much difference. The seal poachers are a band they've been pursuing for years, and now, though saddened of course to hear that the dead man was one of their finest, they seem almost proud that he took the poachers with him to the grave. It seems a very harsh attitude to you, but you understand. This is a harsh part of the world. 

That night was a night of tears and confessions for you as well, as you told Ray's painful story to Sister Mary Joan and the priest. You thought your own heart was breaking as you let free the sobs you had held back as he spoke. Both the priest and the Sister reacted with the same horror you felt, and you had to persuade them not to speak to him about it. To respect his self-imposed distance. 

It's almost harder to treat him now that you know his secret, but you manage. Clean and bandage, soothe and medicate. Never a word, never any acknowledgment of the story you share. 

The second morning after he told his tale, you are cleaning the gash on his head for what you are fairly sure is going to be the last time. You are satisfied with the rate of healing, but somehow, even that simple, clinical statement sticks in your throat. 

The tasks are finished with remarkable swiftness, and within minutes you have turned away again, discarding the soiled bandages in the bright red biohazard container into which all bloodied materials must go. It sits beneath the window, and as you shut the lid, a flicker of movement catches your eye. 

Startled, you look up so quickly that you bump your head on the underside of the window sill. Through the crust of frost on the glass, you can just make out a large shape in the distance, less than a kilometer away on the white, barren landscape. 

As it trudges closer, you can make out the massive form of Delmar Higgins, a trapper who you've come to know well. He came to this area not three months ago, complaining of 'overpopulation' in his previous stomping grounds. Every so often he has come by the hospice, bringing you meat, skins, or any other little gift he can manage as repayment for the time you stitched up a finger he had nearly severed on one of his traps. You've told him it's unnecessary, but still he persists, and you've come to appreciate the company he provides on his visits as much as anything. 

You squint through the glass, your breath creating a small hazy circle around your nose and mouth. Higgins is definitely bringing something big this time...possibly even a whole caribou from the looks of the bundle he has slung over his shoulder. If it is, you know you'll have to turn it down. That is simply too much of a gift to accept. 

"Whatcha lookin' at?" Startled, you whirl around to look at your patient. He doesn't seem to notice anything remarkable about the first words he's spoken in nearly two days, but simply stares at you with frank curiosity. 

Deciding not to react to the sudden break in the silence, you respond smoothly. "It's Delmar Higgins. He's a trapper who comes around every once in a while to bring us things. How do you feel about caribou?" 

He scratches his head, then shrugs. "Ok, I guess." A pause. "Did you say Delmar?" 

"Yes." 

An incredulous expression appears on his face. "No way." 

You leave the window and approach Ray's bed. "What is it?" 

"That guy pulled Fraser and me out of an ice crevasse not three months ago. Talk about Grizzly Adams!" He taps one finger against his head knowingly. "Couple snowballs short of a full igloo, if you know what I mean." 

Giggling, you nod. "I know, but he's a sweetheart. Just enrolled at the local Inuit school, actually. The kids love him." 

"Grade four?" 

"How did you know?" 

Ray grins...the first smile you've seen from him for what seems like forever. You've begun to treasure Ray-smiles, as though they were actual gifts you could hold in your hand. "Just a hunch," he admits. 

You open your mouth to say that he should be here any moment, but just then, you hear the thud of snowshoes being dropped on the wood of the porch, and a scuffeling as though a great bear were nosing around. With a nod to your patient, you go to open the door. 

Higgins nearly fills the doorframe as you open it, a look of astonishment in the crinkled eyes above the massive Santa Claus beard. "Well whaddya know," he marvels, "knew I was coming, eh?" 

"We had a hunch." Smiling in welcome, you step aside to let him pass through. The bundle over his shoulder is wrapped thickly in moose and seal pelts, and you frown. He's never brought meat that way before. You begin to question him about the unusual transportation method, but he suddenly does something far more surprising. 

Rather than heading to the storeroom, he turns for the second bed in your tiny ward and unceremonially dumps the bundle onto it. Feeling both perplexed and a bit annoyed, you rush over and lift one corner of the furs. Pointing firmly at the contents, you stare straight up into the eyes of the huge man. "What do you think you're doing, putting this here?" 

He shrugs slowly. "Bed seemed like the place to put him, Sister." 

"Him?" You look down into the parcel, and suddenly, your knees seem to turn to jelly as your head spins. One hand clamps tightly over your mouth as you fight not to scream. 

The parcel contains not meat, but a human being. Actually, you realize, that status is somewhat questionable at the moment. Your lifting of the furs has exposed his face and one shoulder, and what you see truly horrifies you. What was once a thick head of dark hair is now mostly singed away, the side of his face crudely bandaged. Any exposed skin is cruelly red with burns and abrasions. One eye is swollen shut, and the entire face is grossly distorted by swelling, though the underlying structure seems to have been quite handsome at one point. Another homemade patch is centered over his shoulder, but the massive discoloration around it suggests a terrible wound beneath. 

Eyes wide, you stare up at Higgins. "Where did you...who is..." The words stumble awkwardly over each other in your shock. 

"Found him in the ravine next to a real mess of a car. Brought him home and did as best I could to patch him up until he was good enough to move." He gives you a mournful look that would not look out of place on a sheepdog. "Hope you can help him, Sister. Ben Fraser's been a friend of mine from grade four." 

At the sound of Fraser's name, Ray sits bolt upright in his bed. His eyes are like a wild animal's, bright with a hot mixture of hope and fear. "Ben?!!" It's the first time you've ever heard him call his friend by his first name, but that won't register until later. 

Snapping into action on behalf of the poor soul in front of you, you begin to gently pull away the furs as you step between the beds to shield Ray's view. He protests loudly, and you can hear the bed shaking as he fights to get up. Looking up to Higgins, you motion towards Ray with your head. "Don't let him get up! Those legs and that arm can't move, or they'll break all over again." 

Nodding in quiet agreement, Higgins goes over to the bed. As you slowly tease the furs away, layer by layer, you hear his slow drawl addressing the American. "Now, Ray, Ben's going to be ok. You've gotta sit still, understand. Need to be in one piece when Ben gets better." 

"Like hell!" Ray's angry cry is halfway between a scream and a sob. "I've got to get over there! Fraser! Fraser, can you hear me, buddy?!! C'mon...say something!! FRASER!!" He is more or less hysterical now, but you know that you're better off leaving his restraint to the massive trapper. 

"Listen to him!" You shout over your shoulder, "Just stay still! I'm taking care of Fraser." 

"Is he alive?!" 

"Right now, yes. But he's hurt, Ray...terribly hurt. I've got to concentrate!" The mutilated flesh revealed by the next moosehide turns your stomach, and you know that you need help. Now. "Sister Mary Joan!" You yell, "Please, help me!" 

Within moments, your fellow nun comes running into the room, where she stops in shock in the doorway. One hand flies to her mouth as her face pales in shock. "Dear Lord! What...?" 

"Higgins found Fraser. He's in pretty bad shape. Ray's not taking it well. Sedate the American, help me with the Mountie." Your words come in a rapid staccato, like a verbal machine gun. All emotion has been shoved aside, or you know you would cry over the shattered form of what was once a kind-hearted man in his physical prime. 

Thankfully, Mary Joan neither argues or takes offense, and you know without turning when she injects the sedative into the cop's IV. He protests loudly and fervently, but it does no good. The potent drug is already flowing into his veins. After a moment, you hear Higgins' solid voice again. "Thank you very much, Sister. Now you can go help with Ben...I'll hold this one down until he goes to sleep." 

Tuning out Ray's rapidly-dwindling arguments, you focus entirely on the body in front of you. Soon, Mary Joan's rubber-gloved hands appear beside your own. Without even bothering to look up, you brief her on the injuries you've found. "First and second degree burns...small patch of third on the back of the right hand. Abrasions over fifty percent of skin surface. Massive contusions. At least three, possibly as many as six fractured ribs, fractured right femur, bi-lateral tib-fib fractures, severely displaced fracture of the right ulna. Possible internal injuries, although abdomen seems soft and easily palpable. Twelve-centimeter contaminated laceration with infection on the right thigh. Skull fracture with swelling and possible concussion. Cartilage damage to the nose and right ear. Multiple small incisions and lacerations, many infected. Infected bullet wound to right shoulder...entrance and exit wounds. Massive blood loss, certainly exposure. Mild frostbite to tips of ears and fingers. Serious dehydration and malnourishment." 

Your friend lets out a low whistle. "He's in pretty bad shape." Her dark eyes look sadly into yours. "Poor Ray." 

"Poor Ben!" Carefully, you start to tease away the crude bandage over the bullet wound as the other nun begins an IV line. You wince as the wound is revealed. It's a nasty mess indeed, the dark, congealed blood of the round entrance puncture surrounded by swollen, discolored flesh in every shade from near-ebony to sickly greenish yellow. Murky yellow fluid oozes from the infected injury, and you shudder just thinking about the agony such an infection must bring. Ten days with critical injuries and only the crudest of medical aid has not served him well. 

Trying not to look, you wet a cottonball with alcohol and begin to clean the area. Suddenly, the corpse-like form twitches away from the contact, and your heart leaps into your throat. *Good God,* you think, *he can't be conscious!* Quickly, you motion towards the medicine cabinet. "Morphine. Hurry...I think he's waking up." You know the pain must be truly excruciating. 

Time seems to crawl to a halt as your gaze fixes on that battered face. His eyelids flutter, then slowly, as if even that act is painful, they open slightly. The eyes that look back at you seem as blue and deep as the Arctic ocean, but they burn with unspeakable suffering. They seem to beg you to end his misery, and your own eyes brim with tears as you shake your head. 

As gently as if you were taking a butterfly into your hand, you brush your fingers against his raw cheek. "You've got to keep fighting, Ben," you whisper. "I know it hurts, but there are people here who care about you. You've got to live...for Ray...for Meg...for all your friends. And for me." 

The blue eyes look directly into your soul, and you nearly scream at what you see. He's giving up. After ten days of hanging on, he is giving up with the finish line in sight! His eyes close, and you howl in frustration, a purely animalistic sound that shocks your companions. You know it's coming, but still the sight of the heart monitor's rhythmic line smoothing to a flat beacon of death comes as a cruel blow. 

Frantically, you begin CPR as Mary Joan sets up the defibrillator. With each compression, you beg God to save this man's life, to persuade him to turn back at the gates of heaven and finish his work on earth. Fraser is going to live. Glancing briefly at Ray's innocently slumbering form, you vow that no matter what it takes, this life will not slip through your fingers. "It's not gonna be this easy, Ben!" You're shouting at the top of your lungs between breaths, "Not this easy! If I have to rip the heart out of my chest and give it to you, you're going to live! Do you understand me?!" 

Mary Joan calls for you to clear, and you reluctantly take a step back, your eyes locked on Fraser's closed eyelids. "Please, Lord," you murmur, "Don't take him yet...he's needed here." 

You don't dare breathe as the metal paddles are applied to his chest, and as the current surges through his shattered body, you know that if too much prayer is possibly a sin, you're going straight to hell. Fraser convulses as the electricity rips through him, but after a brief fluctuation, the heart monitor's line remains completely flat. "No!" The word hisses between clenched teeth, and your hands are fisted so tightly that your nails cut into your palms even through the latex of your gloves. 

"Again!" The order is shouted almost as Mary Joan adjusts the dials, ready to try again without the need for instructions. A higher voltage causes his body to jerk convulsively, and this time, the monitor's green band begins a steady rhythm. One beat, two beats, three...then the heart beat begins to fade again, and soon the flat line has claimed him again. 

"Again!" This time, she moves even faster, and your cry coincides with yet another burst of electricity. Your eyes are riveted to the monitor, your own heart seemingly stopped in anticipation. "Please," you murmur, "please live...Blessed Mother Mary, please let him live!" 

One beat. 

Two. 

Three. 

Four. 

Five. 

An almost hysterical laugh of relief bursts from you as the monitor shows a steady heartbeat, the peaks and valleys strong and constant. He lives. Wiping tears of gratitude from your cheek with the back of your hand, you whisper a brief prayer of thanks as you move to his side again. Looking down at the closed eyes and burn-crusted face, you smile. "You've done your part, Ben...now I'm going to do mine." 

*** 

"I can't tell you how much we appreciate this, Delmar. You've really saved your friend's life all over again. Thank you so much." 

The burly trapper blushes at your praise, looking down at his snow-crusted boots like a little boy. "You're welcome, Sister. But I'm just doin' fetch and carry, is all." 

You look at the large bundle beside him. Like the previous three, it contains bandages, medication, and dozens of vital bags of IV fluids and nutrients...even blood. This tiny hospital was unprepared for two serious patients so close together and requiring long term care, and you've had to have supplies air-dropped in. 

A doctor would have normally come as well, but the weather has been severe, and it's far too risky. Lacking a doctor's more advanced care, Ben would surely have died without Delmar's willingness to trek into the driving snow and fetch the heavy bundles. Smiling warmly, you place one hand on his massive shoulder. "Well, I'm going to have to ask you to fetch and carry one more time, if that's all right." 

He frowns quizzically. "Sure. But I thought you've got your medicines now?" 

"We do." You lean closer, whispering. "This time it's a special surprise for the boys." 'The boys' are what you've taken to calling your two patients. Indeed, although both are grown men, the last week since Ben arrived have brought you so close that you almost consider them sons. 

Bushy eyebrows raise in curiosity. "Really now? What is it?" 

"His name is Diefenbaker." A smug smile tugs at your lips. This is your coup...agreeing to have Ben's wolf brought in. He's been staying with the RCMP detachment in Tuktoyaktuk after escaping from the remaining poachers and leading his entire team of huskies directly to their front door. Ray thinks that having the faithful animal nearby will speed Ben's recovery, and by now you are ready to do almost anything. Besides, the cop informs you that this will not be the first time Diefenbaker has parachuted. 

Delmar grins. "I know Dief. Good dog. He jumps, eh?" 

"Apparently so." 

He scratches at his head in astonishment. "Well I'll be. When do I go get him?" 

"Will you be able to get to the drop point in three hours?" 

"No problem." 

"Good. He'll be there at two o'clock." 

Nodding his agreement, Delmar bends to re-attach his snowshoes, then stops. "So...I just catch him? Or can he land on his own?" 

You pause. Ray didn't tell you that specifically, but you assume that since he didn't stipulate a need for someone who was adept at catching falling wolves, the animal is capable enough on his own. "I think he does it himself." 

"Good enough. See you tonight, Sister." With a brief, rather awkward tip of his thick beaver hat, Delmar turns and leaves, admitting a brief gust of frigid air. You shiver as the door swings shut behind him, marveling at how anyone can be so unaffected by such weather. For a few minutes, you stand by the window, watching the mountainous form slowly trudge away to vanish in the thick swirling snow, then you turn back to the main ward. 

Ray is sitting up in his bed, which you have pulled close to Ben's to make it easier for him to observe his friend. The devotion of the American has been truly remarkable. Although Ben has yet to show any signs of consciousness, he has been there faithfully for hours, reading and talking to the Mountie with no sign of weariness. His own rate of healing has improved greatly, as if learning of the other man's survival galvanized his own will to live. Already, he is hopping about with the aid of crutches, assisting in any tasks his injuries will allow. Mostly, though, he sits and talks...and watches. 

Quietly, you lean back against the wall to take in the two men. Ray's face is soft as he watches the Mountie, and you marvel at how the same blue eyes that can crackle with so much danger can seem so gentle. Raised in the middle of a tough American city, he is a cop who has seen everything nasty the world has to offer and carries the scars, both on his body and heart. From what he tells you, however, Ben has managed to keep his soul untouched and innocent. Logically, these two men should be too disparate to be partners. What you see speaks differently. This is true brotherly love, uncaring of blood or background. 

Suddenly, Ray winces, reaching behind his neck with his good hand as he makes a face. You shake your head as you step forward. How can that face manage to look so rugged and so boyish all at once? "Neck sore?" 

"Yeah," he admits, "guess I've been looking down too long at Fraser." 

"Here..." Rubbing your hands together first to warm them, you begin to gently massage the back of his neck. His muscles are tied in uncountable knots, and you whistle softly. "No wonder it hurts!" You use your knuckles to work the hardest spots, and soon the blonde head is lolling loosely. 

"Mmmm," he murmurs, "I didn't think they taught this to nuns." 

"Therapeutic massage is part of nursing nowadays. It releases tension and increases circulation in sore muscles, see?" You can almost feel him smile. 

"Oh yeah." The massage continues for a few more minutes, then suddenly, you pull away. Ray's head pops up, a disappointed look in his eyes. "Hey! Why'd ya stop?" 

"You seemed better," is the terse answer. 

He looks at you for a long moment, then one side of his mouth quirks up in that lop-sided grin. "Guess so. Thanks." 

There is a tense silence that seems to stretch forever, then you abruptly sweep around to the opposite side of the Mountie's bed and examine the unconscious man closely. "Ben's looking much better." 

He *is* looking better. Much better. There is a general feeling of improvement about him, his face still pale, but lacking that horrible ghostly pallor that it held while his body fought the rampant infections that nearly killed him. You've managed to beat that back with medications, and his fever has cooled, his body strengthening daily. He is out of danger now, and for that you offer daily prayers of gratitude. 

The burns on his face have darkened to ugly, thick scabs, but you know that as unappealing as that looks now, it means they are healing properly and will likely not scar. The fractures are bound in pristine white plaster, and yards of white gauze hide the cleaned and treated cuts that once festered openly. The frostbite on his nose and ears is completely gone, the broken nose set and packed to it's prior, sculpted form. His bullet wound was the worst, of course, requiring massive amounts of antibiotics and the removal of bits of dead tissue before it could be properly cleaned and bound. Now, though, even that is healing well. His solid frame still looks rather gaunt from two weeks of subsiding on nothing more than the broth Delmar could spoon-feed him, but the intravenous IV nutrients are beginning to fill the hollows between his ribs. 

Currently, your largest problem is the worry that he will not regain consciousness. Ben was held sedated for three days, but for the last four, his sleep has been natural, the only drugs fed into him simple antibiotics, nutrients, and painkillers. You worry that his head wound was more severe, that he will possibly never awaken. Those are fears you cannot voice, however. You couldn't do anything to dampen Ray's hope. 

Ray shakes his head and taps a finger against a spot on Ben's bare chest. It's an old scar, dark against the white skin. "See that. Believe it or not, he was hit by an otter." 

You laugh. "An OTTER? You know, Delmar said that Ben had gotten in some weird scrapes, but he never mentioned otters." 

"Weird is right. Delmar found us in one of those, actually. Down an ice crevasse, stuck chest-to-chest in this little opening over a bottomless pit." A strange expression comes over his face. "We...we were singing." 

"Singing?" Surely you didn't hear that right. 

He nods. "Singing. I'd told him that I'd seen death before, and he'd asked what I'd done. I told him sang. So we sang." Ray grins self-depriciatingly. "He chose a lot better than me. I'd picked Abba. Fraser sings like a bird anyway...I sing more like a cat being run over by a lawnmower." 

"It's not how you sing that matters, Ray, it's why," you assure him. "You and Ben sang for friendship and hope. I can't think of a better reason." 

There's a pause as he seems to consider this, then he starts to sing; a haunting, lilting melody in a charming, if untrained tenor. 

"Ah, just one more time, I will sail the Northwest Passage, To find the Hand of Franklin reaching for the Beaufort Sea. Tracing one warm light..." 

"...through a land so wild and savage..." The words startle both of you. They come in a voice that - far from being birdlike - is quite hoarse, halting and as weak as the memory of a passing breeze. Looking down in shock, you find yourself staring a pair of blue eyes you had been worried you would never see again. Ben's eyes. 

Ray's face is bright with a grin of boyish delight, and you see that your hardened Chicago cop has tears threatening to overflow. The last words of the verse tremble and come in a ragged unison, but it is not how they are singing, it is why. Two friends who have again looked death in the face and come away alive. 

"To find the Northwest Passage o'er the sea." 

**THE END**


End file.
